


I Know the Steps but I Don't Know the Dance

by stardust_made



Series: The I Know the Steps Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-30
Updated: 2011-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-26 17:24:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A follow-up of "On Your Plate" where Mycroft and Lestrade met for the first time. This charts the progression of their relationship to their getting together. Mycroft's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know the Steps but I Don't Know the Dance

  
Looking back to the last five months Mycroft will be justified to think that this must be the most ambiguous…courtship by a man of another man in the twenty-first century. Mostly because he is not sure the other man knows Mycroft is courting him. And true, Mycroft doesn’t have a wide frame of reference, what with allowing only three people in his _personal_ space since the century began, but he reads _a lot_.

It has been, indeed, five months since the moment he met Greg Lestrade in person. That Mycroft had found him interesting before that is well-established. That after the event Mycroft could be best described as smitten is also not a secret, although it took some strenuous arguing with himself until he backed down and admitted the word “smitten”, for all its unbecoming connotations to sheep-like intelligence, was also the closest word in the Oxford Dictionary to describe his state at the time.

That in the process of the following seven instances when he and Greg communicated Mycroft’s predicament has taken on the scale of a medium-size wildfire is obvious, too. Oh, it’s not _obvious_ obvious. It’s obvious only to Mycroft and to his right hand—who recently has been throwing mellow glances at the ring on _her_ right hand, so that might have something to do with it. And, of course, to Sherlock. Although in Mycroft’s defence he hasn’t even attempted to hide it from his brother.

The ambiguity is to be found in the dynamic between Mycroft and Lestrade. He still enjoys calling him Lestrade sometimes—after all, when the man was still a fantasy, he was only Lestrade, and Mycroft knows a good fantasy should be treated with respect. Mycroft would like to think this is not so much an ambiguous but just a highly unorthodox form of courtship, but he really cannot be sure. Sadly, that’s something else that falls into the category of established data: From the moment they met, Mycroft has continued to endure bouts of insecurity, unprecedented in his entire personal history. There are times when he thinks his interest is reciprocated. There are times when he cannot believe anyone would doubt the nature of Mycroft’s appreciation. Then there are times when he wonders about whether the returned interest is of the same nature. He has known Lestrade preferred women to men since before he met him. But he has also known men were ‘on the menu’ to borrow a tasteless expression. That still doesn’t mean Mycroft is able to tell with absolute certainty if he has made it to the list of main courses.

And the seven instances have done nothing but confuse him, for each of them is a marvellous example for the meaning of the idiom ‘neither here, nor there’.

The first time was when Sherlock was robbed and beaten up. Mycroft met Lestrade. They dealt with the matter. They had breakfast. They went to Sherlock’s. They parted there. Mycroft found his concentration over the next forty-eight hours appalling. He had to cancel his appearance at that Embassy’s ‘social’ event for fear he might have allowed the wrong muscle to twitch on his face.

The second time was only eight days after the first time. Mycroft is aware he probably has himself to blame for setting the tone of their courtship, if that’s what that is, by sending Greg a pound of sausages as means of wooing him. All crude Freudian associations aside, it was because sausages were what Mycroft knew for sure Greg liked. He had said so himself, unequivocally. By all means Mycroft could have deduced a long appreciation list on Greg’s behalf, but this wasn’t a trivial matter like the prices of real estate. Mycroft couldn’t risk with his _guesses_. So sausages it was, and Greg had texted him the same night.

Oh, that text. It was his reaction to it that served as one of the main pieces of evidence for the accuracy of the term “smitten”. It was fortunate Greg was as nocturnal as Mycroft: it meant that when his ‘ _Thanks for the sausages, much appreciated. Greg_ ’ arrived in Mycroft’s phone, the recipient was home alone and there were no witnesses to his attempt to actually clutch at his heart. That Lestrade had figured out immediately who had sent him this unusual gift was not a big surprise—although it was, irrationally, rather nice. What was if not surprising, then at least unreliable to expect, was Lestrade’s choice to contact his nutrition benefactor. He had kept Mycroft’s number. He had accepted the gift _and_ had made use of that number. Mycroft’s own reply was a thing of rare beauty, when layers of meaning and depth of feeling coalesced into a single word, the single word he sent back: ‘ _Pleasure._ ’

That word has been so strongly associated with Greg that there are times when Mycroft feels it like the tip of an icicle, pressing into his neck. It’s melting there, hot and cold at the same time, the sharp sting of it mixing with the gentle trickle of droplets down his spine. All he has to do is just remember about Greg Lestrade’s _existence_.

The third and fourth occurrences were a whole of two months later, and were both connected to Sherlock again. Mycroft and Lestrade had worked together to help him and John with some…trouble. Money was involved and the fact that there was an exorbitant amount of it didn’t make the case less pedestrian. At least it was refreshing that the chief participants were top representatives from two major underground organizations. All ended well, thankfully—well, depending on the point of view as per usual. Mycroft was certain some parties would have strongly objected to his wording, possibly likening their current existence to hell—if they still had their tongues to speak. But for Sherlock, John and a very large number of teenage girls there was a happy ending. For Mycroft and Lestrade there was a number of hours spent together in work and a fair bit of bother, during which they’d snatched precious random details about the other. At least they were precious to Mycroft. He didn’t pry. Oh, he was utterly himself in many ways—there wasn’t much of a point in trying to be what he wasn’t: Greg had known Sherlock for too long and Mycroft’s personality _always_ broke through. But he wasn’t insensitive, he just showed interest. And for his part Greg listened. Very finely, too. He also continued leaving Mycroft stumped with his plain, perfectly timed and perfectly to the point questions. Mycroft had never met anyone who managed so effortlessly to be both absolutely fascinating and completely ordinary at the same time.

That was when Sherlock figured it out. Just as Mycroft was thinking those things exactly. Sherlock just murmured “Oh. I see,” and went off to drag John into a corner and tower over him, whispering urgently.

The fifth time they spoke on the phone. It was the only time Mycroft allowed himself to “invent” a reason to call Lestrade. But he’d had his first unsuccessful trip in two years, followed by a particularly trying weekend with Mummy. He’d come home very late on Monday evening and had got himself a scotch, then he had just sat there, in the dark, only the corridor light on. Mycroft didn’t feel “down” on principle, for it would have implied his emotions had a mastery over him—but that Monday night his eyes had not elevated above their point of natural horizon for hours.

And he simply felt the need to hear Lestrade’s voice. He didn’t call him straight away, no. He had another scotch first and continued sitting there in the dark, bearing the weight of the world, of his family and of his need, until he was absolutely convinced that it was time to lose a battle and keep his chances of winning the war. He went and stood by the big glass door that led to the garden, looking into the night. The reason for calling Lestrade was the easiest thing to find—after all Mycroft had notable skills in making people believe whatever he wanted them to believe.

But it didn’t matter in the end. Whether it was Mycroft’s inability to fully betray his promise to himself to not impose on this man, or whether it was Lestrade’s uncanny ability to take everything into his stride and make Mycroft feel _relaxed_ , within minutes of the conversation the pretext for it was forgotten. Lestrade acted as if hearing from Mycroft was the most natural thing in the world, and Mycroft was completely disarmed by his no-nonsense, earnest approach. To the point where he spoke about Mummy! He didn’t actually say it was Mummy he was talking about, but he shared, nonetheless. It was riveting, soothing and blinding all at once.

Although Mycroft has excellent memory, and is usually able to quote freely anything and everything, on this occasion most of the dialogue has been lost. There is a snippet of it though that he’s remembered and it will probably always be associated with cold scotch and the magnificent shape of the big oak tree in the garden, swayed by the wind and lit up by the straying light of the moon when the clouds let it escape their hold.

“If I start breaking up that’s because I’m on the train to Paris and we’re about to go underground,” Lestrade had said.

Mycroft’s eyebrows had risen and he’d been unable to help himself. “Oh? Business or pleasure?”

“Business.” There’d been a pause and the already familiar drawl had been accompanied by a self-deprecating lilt. “Paris isn’t for me. I’m a simple man of simple pleasures.”

Mycroft would have called his realtor in France there and then, and asked him to sell his Parisian apartment if only that would have made Lestrade say the word ‘pleasure’ again.

“That is a rather misleading thing to say,” Mycroft had told him instead, hearing his own voice turn velvety. “Oscar Wilde said ‘I have the simplest tastes,’ while being a very sophisticated man in his own…pleasures, at least by the standards of his time. But in all fairness he did finish that quote with 'I'm always satisfied with the best.'”

Lestrade had laughed. “God, you’re so…” Mycroft’s breath had gone on strike in his throat, while he’d pressed the cool, moist glass onto his neck, _waiting_. But Lestrade hadn’t finished his sentence. He’d only said “We’re going in. Sorry, I—“ and the line had gone dead.

Mycroft received a message a couple of hours later. ‘ _Sorry we got cut off. Nice talking to you. I’m having some French red wine—not sure it makes me sophisticated though_.’

 _‘You are perfect_ ,’ Mycroft hadn’t texted back.

 

***

  
The sixth time they had contact was also the first time Lestrade initiated it. One of the reasons Mycroft remembers it well is because it managed to make it painfully clear to him how deep he had gone in his fall.

Under any other circumstances Lestrade’s reason for getting in touch would have left Mycroft in no doubt that it was something pulled out of thin air—an excuse to call. If only it was another person calling. But since it wasn’t, despite the fact that Mycroft _knew_ Lestrade could have asked Sherlock for help, a part of him was certain he was experiencing a bad case of the condition, commonly known as “wishful thinking”. Yes, yes—Sherlock and John were on holiday. But Lestrade knew Sherlock too well to question his priorities. Maybe he’d had a private conversation with John and had been forbidden to contact Sherlock. Maybe Sherlock had been particularly insufferable during the last case and Lestrade still didn’t want to see him or hear of him. Maybe Lestrade’s superiors had pressed him for immediate results. There were just too many _other_ possibilities. In his own head Mycroft had thrown his arms in the air with an exasperated ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake’, but the truth was this: He couldn’t bring himself to trust that Lestrade had simply wanted to get in touch with _him_.

Mycroft helped him with the case, of course. The temptations were too great and too numerous for him to refrain.

One of them was the unique mirror he’d found in Greg’s eyes. It was his own, personal variation of the Narcissus’ legend: Mycroft knew if he wasn’t careful, he could end up finding no better place to be but at the shores of those dark, dark eyes. Staring into them and into his own reflection there, until he perished. Mycroft pitied himself when he realized he had become the same greedy creature Sherlock had turned to, once he’d tasted John Watson’s admiration.

Which was why he decided all effort had to be made to avoid being…demonstrative. He despised exuberance ardently in general but then again he _had_ been told he had a flair for the dramatic. So Mycroft sat in Lestrade’s office—ignoring everyone around who goggled at the first well-dressed man they’d seen in the building in decades—and tried to speak evenly, make his deductions seem prosaic and just avoid being flashy as much as possible.

But he doesn’t think he was very successful. For one thing, he managed to solve the case without actually leaving the room and within the space of forty-five giddying minutes, spent only in Lestrade’s company. For another, Lestrade’s mouth had varied between three states throughout the entire time: quirked in a peculiar but very gratifying smile; slightly ajar—the lips fuller and moister then; plain open.

As for Mycroft’s attempts to be unassuming—well. He showed up at the door of Lestrade’s office, unannounced, barely nodded with his most pleasant smile—“Good afternoon, Inspector”—and Lestrade started tidying his desk, running his fingers repeatedly through his hair, and offering to go out and get Mycroft a decent cup of coffee, because the coffee in their canteen was “rubbish”. Mycroft squeezed his umbrella’s handle to the white-knuckle point, lest his own fingers shot and smoothed Greg’s hair—he’d quite messed it while trying to arrange it—and allowed his touch to ghost over Greg’s arm as he said, “Please, don’t worry about me. Let us discuss the matter at hand.”

Lestrade saw him off all the way to the street afterwards. They came down alone in the lift and no one said a word for three floors. Mycroft watched Lestrade's hands sliding into his pockets and playing there and, horrified, felt a flush rising up his own neck.

He did a pre-emptive strike. “The heat has been rather oppressing.”

That didn’t quite work out as intended—another proof that around Lestrade Mycroft’s ability to predict the consequences of any events and actions failed to stretch even to the end of his long nose. Because instead of providing a nice ruse _in case_ his blush was noticed, by speaking, Mycroft had ensured Lestrade actually turned to look at him.

“Yeah, it’s been awful,” he said, his eyes connecting some dots on Mycroft’s face. “I’ve stopped wearing a jacket like a month ago. Can’t even stand having my tie on sometimes.”

He looked straight ahead again in silence, then in a few seconds added, “Makes no difference anyway; I look like an old wet tea towel once July's here. _You_ don’t look like it’s over twenty degrees outside.”

Mycroft, who had spent every summer in his adult life believing himself to be a sweaty, porous mass of fat, was saved by the “ping” of the opening doors of the lift. It stopped him from doing something not very sensible—such as dropping on his knees and burying his face in the other man’s navel.

Outside, once again on the stairs in front of a police building, Lestrade turned to him and stretched out his hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes—“

Mycroft caressed the inside of the hand with his own palm, smiling. “Please, call me Mycroft.”

“Mycroft, thank you.” Lestrade’s hand retreated back into his pocket, to mimic its twin. His eyes avoided Mycroft’s face; he rocked once on his heels and cleared his throat.

“Listen, I know you’re very busy and you’ve got—I mean, you don’t just go to any places to eat and you probably go to, er, really fancy places…” Lestrade had examined the pavement during his overture, but at this point lifted his head and looked him squarely in the face. “But maybe I could call you some time and buy you a drink—or perhaps we could have dinner?” He cleared his throat again. “I owe you big time for this.”

Mycroft didn’t really think, hope and proximity draining his last ounce of intelligence. Left on autopilot his brain panicked and called Mycroft’s wretched upper class upbringing to take over. Sometimes he _really_ wished he was more the free spirit that Sherlock was.

“No. Thank you, but no,” he heard himself decline as one was _supposed to_ when one was offered expressions of gratitude. “You don’t have to. I was delighted to be able to assist.”

“Right. Um, right,” Lestrade repeated, and Mycroft wondered in an inner frenzy how it was possible that someone’s rich brown eyes could grow darker in such blazing sunlight. He smiled helplessly because that was all he could do at that moment.

“I better go in and wrap this up,” Lestrade said. “Thanks again. I really appreciate it.”

Mycroft just nodded politely—and in several seconds he was in his air-conditioned car. He gave the driver the address and as the car slithered through the streets of London, Mycroft grounded himself to a complete halt. He must have looked like a statue: forever petrified and open for interpretation to viewers and academics alike. He has no idea what miracle brought him back to flesh then. Perhaps it was Greg’s face, projecting itself huge and utterly alive on the canvas of Mycroft’s inner vision—no caption, no sound. Perhaps the car just jolted. But Mycroft remembers how suddenly he came out of his stupefied state and how he looked around. Surreal. Everything seemed surreal. He found it supremely hard to separate from what had just passed and return to the solid reality of the material world around him. Greg had been there in one moment and he hadn’t been there in the next—and Mycroft’s entire being crumpled under the crushing weight of the difference between the two.

The seventh time was three weeks after that and a week from now. It was when Lestrade shot someone, who was going to kill Sherlock.

Mycroft found out about it a few minutes after it’d happened. A worried face had peered in into his office, a few keys had been pressed on the laptop, and Mycroft— breathless but stone-faced—was watching the footage from the left camera: Sherlock, crouching over John’s injured body and completely oblivious about his surroundings, and a man not a few yards away from him aiming a gun at his head. Then there was the sound of another gun being fired, the man swayed and dropped on the ground, face first, and Sherlock…Mycroft didn’t need to rewind to see that his brother’s body had attempted to simultaneously jump and look back, and throw itself forward to cover John’s form. The result was that Sherlock had just managed to flail helplessly as he lost his balance, and sprawled on his back.

By a chilling, blessed chance the other camera framed Lestrade in a perfect composition. Mycroft watched him arrive; watched his face transform from a panting, animated face into a shocked, panicked face; and then he watched the swift motion of Lestrade’s arm, pulling the gun out—face transforming again into a blank, focused face—and then aiming, shooting, sprinting…All within a matter of _seconds._ It was dizzying. Mycroft felt dizzied.

He closed the laptop and without looking up from its lid, asked “Is medical help on its way?”

“Yes, sir,” that feminine, efficient voice said promptly. “The ambulance was dispatched less than a minute after the incident. They should be there already. Shall I get the car?”

The first thing Mycroft saw when they arrived was Lestrade, standing in the middle of the unique mess that only a crime scene could be, and conducting it in an almost literal fashion: his hands were pointing, beckoning, and halting, while his head was turning to all sides as if he was listening to the different sections of his invisible orchestra. The similarity ended there—Lestrade was also talking, voice raising occasionally over the noise of radios, the roar of engines and the voices of everyone involved, plus those of a fair number uninvolved but very interested and chatty strangers.

Mycroft stood by the sideline and waited to be noticed. It was a novel experience for him but he’d stopped keeping track on those for some time.

Lestrade’s eyes fell on him and he immediately made his way over, in passing calling something intangible to a young constable.

“You missed him,” he said to Mycroft as soon as he was within an earshot, turning to another policeman who’d arrived at the same time with a piece of paper on a clipboard. Lestrade picked it up and scanned over it, pen in hand, as he continued, “He left in the ambulance with John.”

“I know,” Mycroft said. He didn’t elaborate that he knew everything, from the origin of the case, through the latest update about John Watson’s stable condition, to the investigation awaiting Lestrade as a result of his killing a suspect without giving warning first. There was something else Mycroft had to say and he didn’t want to waste a second of this busy, important, wonderful man’s time with long explanations.

“I came to see you,” he told him.

Lestrade’s eyes shot up from the document. He looked at Mycroft but said nothing, his chest rising high with adrenaline and exertion. Mycroft took in his rumpled, dirtied shirt; the traces of mud over his exposed neck; his hooded eyes, flashing rhythmically with each turn of the blue light on top of the nearest police car—and he gulped. Lestrade’s eyes lowered quickly to the document in his hand and he scribbled his signature at the bottom; then, as the officer left, his eyes returned to Mycroft’s face. The few seconds had been enough for Mycroft to compose himself though. He lifted his umbrella, examining its tip unnecessarily as was his ritual.

“From certain exchanges between us,” he began, “you may have gathered that my relationship with Sherlock is not what one would call…cordial. However, I can assure you that I am _very_ invested in his well-being.” Mycroft finally lifted his eyes and locked them with Lestrade’s. “Thank you for saving my brother’s life.”

Lestrade made a vague, non-committal gesture with his shoulders. “Well, it was close. That bastard I took down has been known to shoot to kill. Was known, I should say. I had to just— I saw Sherlock there, so close, and you don’t think, really. I mean you do, on your feet.” A crease appeared between Lestrade's eyebrows but there was warmth in his voice. “I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. Got an investigation coming…”

Mycroft nodded. They stood still, just looking at each other. Mycroft frowned at his own inability to compose a simple request. Lestrade's eyes widened, his expression a combination between prompting and expecting.

Mycroft realized there was one question that he should have asked, that had priority over all others. He thought he’d deduced the answer but where the man in front of him was concerned, Mycroft could no longer rely on himself not to be wrong. Another novelty.

It also occurred to him that on some occasions questions didn’t just serve as means of gathering information but also of divulging it.

“Are you all right?” he said, his vowels subtly soaked up in concern.

There was surprise on Lestrade’s face but his reply was quick, his tone unperturbed.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m all right.”

Mycroft smiled for the first time that evening and seemed to find his words.

“I’m glad to hear it. I won’t be presumptuous to insist you seek my assistance with regards to the internal investigation. I am perfectly confident that you won’t need it, and that you can manage very well without it. However, _if_ I could be of any use…” He rose an eyebrow and paused, before finishing. “You are aware that I have some minor influence in certain circles.”

Lestrade smiled that half-amused, half-incredulous smile Mycroft found a frequent guest on his lips.

“Thanks,” he said. “I don’t think it’d be necessary. But, ah, yeah—thanks.”

Mycroft gulped again and charged in, before he had the chance to back off.

“And, of course, I would be delighted if you allowed me to buy you dinner as a thank—“

“No, no,” Lestrade interrupted him, shaking his head, his voice commanding. Something caught his eye in the distance and he lifted his hand up, calling loudly, “With Stevenson!” to a paramedic, then turned to Mycroft again. “Sorry. And no. If we’ll be doing this, then _I_ am going to buy you dinner.”

Mycroft’s eyebrow rose again. “You want to buy me dinner for saving my brother’s life?”

Lestrade’s eyes darted around for a moment, obviously taken-aback, but he straightened himself and looked at Mycroft, defiant.

“Yeah. I mean, no—I do want to buy you dinner but for last time, remember? When I wanted to say thank you for helping me with that case with the Maltese, and you blew—And you declined. If buying dinners is fine for you, I should be allowed to do it, too,” he finished, punctuating his sentences with his chin.

Then he seemed to be struck by an entertaining afterthought.

“And if in a few weeks’ time you still feel grateful I didn’t let that guy kill Sherlock, you can buy me dinner then.”

His beautiful white-toothed smile graced the end of his sentence for too brief a moment, to accompany the darkly humorous glint in his eyes.

Mycroft threw his head back and laughed. He looked at Lestrade—and when had sincere laughter ever done any good to anyone who strived to be _careful_? Mycroft is still convinced that he must have looked quite the fool with his wooden demeanour and his dull appearance, gazing adoringly at someone fit enough to be the poster boy of rugged sex appeal.

He looked quickly away from Lestrade as he murmured. “As you wish.”

Thankfully, Lestrade didn’t seem to notice Mycroft’s internal self-flogging. He became all business.

“Great. Right then. I’ll give you a call when I’m done with the first batch of paperwork. It’ll give me some time to figure out a nice place to go—can’t have you chasing around another scrambled egg on your plate without eating it.”

Mycroft made a small courteous bow with his head. Lestrade pointed a thumb over his shoulder.

“I better get back there. Lots to do.”

“Sure, of course,” Mycroft said. “I shall await your phone call. And good luck.”

“Thanks,” Lestrade said. “Erm, see you soon.”

Mycroft nodded formally; Lestrade started walking away.

“Inspector,” Mycroft called. Lestrade stopped and turned.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said. “Really.”

Lestrade lifted his hand in a goodbye gesture. “Don’t mention it.” 

 

***

  
For days Mycroft has had to exercise his willpower to an extent that is threatening to ruin his ability to function on an elementary, daily level.

He’s been waiting for Greg to call. Greg said he’d call when he dealt with the first wave of his internal investigation paperwork. That was a week ago and he still hasn’t called. Mycroft can find out _exactly_ how far the investigation has progressed with a single phone call. He doesn’t even have to be the one to make it. But he has stopped himself from doing it.

His relationship with power has always rivalled only his relationship with food. True, the latter became central to his life at very early age while the former was a definite late bloomer—Mycroft realised it was power that he relished only in his late adolescence. It wasn’t just ordinary power, either, but the special kind that came from being able to make connections that no one else could.

But where he’s managed to deny himself food on and off for most of his adult life, this, now, is one of the very few occasions when Mycroft has made an effort to relinquish control. He hopes it's worth it. Well, he doesn’t let his hope run amok to envisage a moment in the future where Greg Lestrade is such a part of his life that maudlin, glorious conversations about how things began for the other will be held. But Mycroft would like to keep his fantasy of such conversations untainted. In it, he can’t be heard saying to Greg “Actually, it wasn’t bad enough that I already knew most details of your life and history before you’d even started using my personal name. No. I proceeded to rob you off from any privacy in your own journey to me by stalking your every step of it.” No imagination can produce a scene where Greg’s face is pleased at hearing this.

But it isn’t just Greg’s possible reaction. Mycroft could make that call and then never tell him he did. However, just the thought of lying to Greg makes Mycroft want to search for his indigestion pills.

So he stumbles through his hours, externally unmoved, unchanged; internally writhing in insecurity, impatience and frustration. But most of all pining. It isn’t about being rejected or about not being wanted in the first place. He is pining _for_ Greg. He wants to see him so badly that there are times when Mycroft excuses himself in the middle of meetings just so he can get up and move. He has to repel that need by sheer physicality, or to give it voice by reading poetry and snippets of prose out loud. There is no urgency about Mycroft’s persona by default. His temperament has just missed the train to 'phlegmatic'; his character is that of an intellectual—Mycroft could picture Mummy smiling fondly at that understatement. He has never experienced such longing to be around someone, with someone, and as much as it terrifies him, it also exhilarates him. At last, at last there is something that doesn’t leave the control solely in his hands because they are the only ones capable of handling it. Mycroft doesn’t have to deny himself anymore—there is someone else who has enough power to deny him.

Until Greg gratifies him by calling.

Their conversation is so trivial and brusquely focused on arrangements that Mycroft is left wondering: was that significant of a roaring need to cut the middle man of time and just meet? Or was it the opposite: complete disinterest. Thankfully, as they’ve arranged to meet the same night, Mycroft is relieved he wouldn’t have to speculate for long. He can direct his mental energy to more pressing matters--such as what to wear.

“I’ve found a nice restaurant, my DCI recommended it,” Greg said, “and he seems like the kind of guy that should know about this. Not very fancy though, I hope that’s all right—the food is supposed to be amazing so I thought that’s more important.”

Mycroft was agreeableness itself. “You are right. And I’m sure it will be a lovely place. So…informal wear?”

Greg’s hesitation before answering told Mycroft all he needed to know about how often the Detective Inspector had to consider such questions in his everyday life.

“Um, I’m not sure really. I only checked it on the internet—it seemed quite friendly and small. Just wear whatever you feel comfortable in. I’ll certainly be casual—if I have to wear a suit after work, too, I’ll go crazy,” Greg said ruefully.

So Mycroft spends at least two hours deducing how Greg defines ‘casual’. He doesn’t want to be overdressed or underdressed compared to him. Mycroft wants them to fit together, even if it is fleetingly and superficially.

He notices Greg waiting outside the restaurant as the car approaches but it is only when he comes out of it that Mycroft realizes it was a good thing he didn’t conjure up the _exact_ image of Greg Lestrade in casual wear. There wouldn’t have been any blood circulation to his brain for hours. Actually, relocation of blood and dehydration are not off the list of imminent peril by far.

Greg is wearing a nicely fitted light blue and white shirt, thin stripes; the cut leaves it quite open at the neck and it's got small, subtle mother of pearl buttons. Greg has folded the sleeves neatly in an attempt to combat the heat, barely abating at seven-thirty in the evening. On his neck there is something made of leather: two thin threads, intertwined, with a couple of silver glints along the line--but Mycroft is reeling too much as he’s taking him in, to notice exactly what the glints are. Greg’s also put on a pair of dark blue trousers—held by a brown leather belt. The trousers look like jeans but aren’t. And that only makes them look better. Greg looks...cool. He looks indisputably attractive, and he looks so _so_ sexy—

To make matters worse waves of arousing scents are exuding from all over him—some old semblance of brainpower stirs in Mycroft and he makes a note that the devil has had enough time to have a shower and use products afterwards, but he’s still got three days' stubble: he’s not shaved on purpose! As they shake hands, Greg pulls him closer—not exactly a hug, but the distance is shortened considerably—and he smiles, and Mycroft can’t quite feel his own _face_. He hopes he’s smiling, too; he’s certainly praying that his long-serving people’s skills are not failing him at this greatest of tests and he’s being adequate. Things don’t look overly optimistic in that respect—as they’re waiting to be seated, Greg mentioning some details about the place, he looks at Mycroft and his voice has a sudden change of mood towards something almost husky.

“Are you all right?” he asks, and Mycroft snaps his eyes up from Greg’s chest to his face, and orders his lips to stretch wide.

“Yes. I’m fine, thank you,” he says. Greg nods just once.

Once at their table, the evening unrolls like a surreal red carpet at Mycroft’s feet. First of all, the restaurant is a delightful discovery. Mycroft has had less and less time to dine out in places that are chosen less for their reputation or the confidentiality they offer and more for their atmosphere and food. This place would have received a big tick of approval even if it wasn’t associated with this special occasion. The temperature is perfect; the walls are soundproof so people would probably be able to hear themselves even if they whispered; there is no light coming from the ceiling at all but the space is nonetheless softly and evenly lit; finally, there is that je ne sais quoi quality that gives ambience without drawing the focus away from the food.

And the food is delicious. Mycroft’s palms dampen in his lap when Greg insists he orders something more substantial than salad. The silly man is not careful at all, making reckless comments like “It’s good to have some rich food once in a while; a man has to look like a man.”

He then leans forward, his voice going low in a conspiratory way.“D’you know, I was once called to investigate a blackmail case at the London Fashion week—a couple of years ago only—and the girls there, Jesus Christ! They were so thin!” Greg’s face is so close and so expressive that Mycroft barely stops himself from reaching over to touch it. Greg moves on to look slightly put off and worried as he finishes. “And it was the same with the male models: thin as lampposts. That doesn’t look good on anyone.”

So Mycroft eats the lamb with three side orders and drinks two large glasses of red wine.

Then it’s their conversation. Half-way through it Mycroft realizes that from the moment he’s met Greg every single time he’s found himself relaxing in the other man’s presence. Even when they only spoke on the phone Mycroft felt tension dissipate from him so discreetly, he forgot it was ever there. There is, however, a far more major insight that Mycroft has in the brief moment Greg excuses himself from the table and Mycroft is left alone. Gasping, he takes a deep breath sharply as if he’s been under water, and it hits him. All the anxiety, all the tension, the swivelling motion of that invisible bottle opener in his guts—it was all him. None of it was Greg—it’s been all Mycroft. Greg has been nothing but friendly, laid-back, charming. At that moment Mycroft spots him walking back towards the table and he is too mesmerised watching him move—oh God, his _hips_ —to unleash his wrath on himself upon the fresh discovery that once again he has himself to find at the root of his agonies.

Mycroft also has the feeling he’s already been punished enough.

They order dessert—apparently Mycroft eats desserts now. They each have a lovely bowl of fruit salad, again by Greg’s advice—and it is at that advice that Mycroft begins to seriously worry about how high the stakes are going. Greg Lestrade might just be good for him, and Mycroft hasn’t met _anyone_ like that—so far in his life he has barely managed to find people who weren’t bad for him. He has no illusions about himself. It’s perfectly clear to him that he isn’t the…easiest, or the most uncomplicated individual out there, and at forty Mycroft is doing his best to accept that finding someone who isn’t bad for him and who is tolerable, would be the height of accomplishment in his personal affairs. Oh, sure, in those rare moments when good alcohol, bad timing and small hours of the night conspired against him, he could still feel the last feeble hisses and scratches of the savage beast in his heart that didn’t want to—That wants love. But it’s taken a whole lot of very private anguish and suppression for Mycroft to tame that beast—or try to kill it, as he never fails to remind himself on those same nights, just before the light dies in his consciousness—and Mycroft believes he’s justified to be a tad nervous about how Greg makes him _feel_. There are few more dangerous things in the world than hope that is substantiated by facts.

Mycroft knows exactly how the conversation turns to the topic of spontaneity. They laugh at something—Mycroft has laughed more within the last hour than he has within the last month—and when they restore their speech, Greg huffs, still amused, “Oh, God, it’s weird to hear my own laughter.” Mycroft instinctively starts, bright-eyed, at hearing his own feeling being articulated but he doesn’t need to say anything: Greg is looking at him as if he’s reading his mind. “Yeah,” he just says.

Then one of them adds something about the demands of the job, the other mentions the hours they keep, there are a few more phrases along those lines—and Greg says, “I haven’t even had a free moment to _miss_ being spontaneous, let alone _be_ spontaneous. When I was twenty, I would just get on my bike and go somewhere on a whim.”

He quickly rubs his eyes, and Mycroft takes advantage of this brief obscurity to let his own eyes flutter closed at the scrumptious mental image of a twenty-year old Greg Lestrade on a motorbike. When Greg speaks next, his tone is very mature, reasonable.

“I’m not saying I should be acting like a twenty-year old. I wouldn’t, even if I could, ’cos I don’t want to. But it’d be nice to be able to just sit down once in a while and go “Actually, I want to see a film now,” and just go to the damn cinema. All I seem to do these days is go to work, go back home and crash onto the sofa, face first.” He smiles at Mycroft. “Sorry, I know I’m painting quite a depressing picture of the stereotypical cop from the movies, but God help me it’s true.”

Mycroft has lifted his hand in a soothing gesture half-way through the last sentence.

“Please, don’t apologize,” he says. “My understanding of how one’s job could take over one’s life is founded on extensive personal experience. I have been very lucky to have a competent PA—I can assure you that without her I wouldn’t be able to keep half my boundaries in place.”

Greg chuckles, but his eyes are serious and richly coloured in the candle light.

“Yeah, people need someone else to do that for them sometimes.”

Mycroft is unable to let go of those eyes; he only hums his agreement and is startled at how close to a purr his voice sounds.

He doesn’t know if it is the first really prolonged eye contact between them, or the wine, or the fact that the tip of Greg’s shoe has touched the tip of Mycroft’s under the table and hasn’t darted back— but there’s a loud, bold, popping sound in Mycroft’s mind.

“Would you like to go to Brighton?” he says.

The big eyes blink a couple of times and Greg asks, voice curious. “How do you mean?”

Mycroft feels like he felt that time he went down a water slide for the first time, when he was eight.

“I mean tonight,” he breathes out. “I have no other plans for the evening, it is only nine o’clock, the car is at my disposal and there is a—I have an access to a wonderful private property, where we could stay should we—“ He bites his metaphorical tongue and rushes to say, “I apologize, this was _very_ inappropriate of me. I was suggesting that if you didn’t have any plans for the remaining of the evening, either, then we could go to Brighton and have a drink there, and return.” Mycroft takes an actual speed-of-lighting sip of water and attempts to finish. “I didn’t mean to imply—I would never impose on your—“

“Can we go right now?” Greg interrupts him, and how, how can he sound so casual when the world is at stakes here Mycroft would never know. He nods his answer, then speaks just in case. “Yes, we can leave immediately.”

Greg smiles and Mycroft can really see it now—the twenty-year old with the bike.

“Great idea,” he says. “Let me just pay.”

Mycroft thanks him, excuses himself and makes his way to the loo where he spends a whole minute just looking at his reflection in the mirror. He cannot recognize his eyes. The nose he knows. The thinning hair, the mole, the high forehead, the lips that could be called at best secretly sensual—it’s all Mycroft. The eyes are their own person. They stare back at him: wide enough to look vulnerable, yet oblique and so _knowing_ —dear God he hopes he doesn’t look at people like that—and suddenly Mycroft has the bizarre feeling that he hasn’t seen himself in _any_ mirror for the last twenty years.

He splashes some water on his flushed face and makes his way back to the table.

 

***

 

They are moving down the A23 with good speed and Mycroft is beginning to see his mad bid for spontaneity in favourable light—they might make it to Brighton in under an hour and a half, and heaven knows Greg must have spent longer than that stuck in traffic in London. Mycroft is too far out of his own comfort zone to notice his own needs anymore but Greg’s comfort matters. On cue the object of his consideration rolls his head until his neck cracks and emits a soft groan of relief.

“We could just stay in the car,” Greg sighs. “It’s so good to sit in the cool and have nowhere to rush to.”

Mycroft just hums his agreement for the umpteenth time over the last half hour.

“Where exactly is that house you mentioned?” asks Greg in a couple of minutes. Mycroft berates himself for his appalling manners. He oddly feels like a host now, despite the fact that it was Greg who took him to dinner. He feels like a bad host then, completely unable to entertain.

  
“Just before Brighton,” he replies politely. “It’s actually on the beach—that is, the garden of the property opens to the beach.”

“Nice!” Greg lifts his eyebrows. Mycroft catches himself a second before he’s about to hum again, and says “Indeed,” for a change. He fidgets with the button of his left cuff—although he’s wearing a casual, cotton and linen mix shirt in a lovely ivory colour, Mycroft hasn’t gone as wild as to roll up its sleeves. So the cuffs allow him to occupy his hands, while his brain feverishly goes over Greg’s question. Was he trying to make small talk? Does he want to—Will it be too forward if—

“We can stop by on the way to Brighton,” Mycroft says, and is certain the noise of his gulp could be heard within a mile.

Greg turns to look at him, face relaxed and slightly flushed. “Yeah, let’s do that,” he says. “We can stop by somewhere before that and get some drinks.”

“That won’t be necessary. I just need to make some arrangements for our visit,” Mycroft says the last sentence apologetically.

Greg just nods and Mycroft slides his phone out of his pocket, sends a text message—he is certain she’ll read a short novella in it—and leaves things in someone else’s competent hands. He then turns to Greg, adamant to make effort at some decent small talk.

“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks. It’s Saturday tomorrow but since Greg doesn’t quite have a nine to five job, Mycroft feels he’s produced a marvellous conversation starter. Then he observes Greg’s eyes become alert…and hears his own question in the context of the last few minutes and the entire evening. There is no hiding the crimson spread over his face now. The only option left to Mycroft is to do damage control.

“You’ve mentioned that your DCI has been relying on your competences a great deal lately,”  he begins with the kind of composed yet honeyed voice that has resulted in armies being held back, “and in my experience that occasionally amounts to what is called ‘irregular hours’. Although if one’s hours are not routine in general by the nature of their profession, then perhaps ‘irregular hours’ becomes an inadequate term to describe one’s need to work on Saturday.” Mycroft is relieved by the end of the sentence. He doesn’t even know what he is saying—he’s too busy fighting the traitorous impulse to pull out his handkerchief and wipe his face.

Greg has listened to him with his mouth barely open in its patent quirked fashion, and there’s that amused look in his eyes again. Oh, jolly good, Mycroft is amusing to Greg! He winces inwardly and more than ever wishes he spoke like a normal person.

“I’m not working tomorrow,” Greg says at last. He turns to look out of the window and adds, “Even if I was, I’d have told them to sod off. In a manner of speaking.”

Mycroft finds he has nothing to say to that so they remain quiet for some time.

For the rest of the journey they don’t talk much and when they do, it’s mostly because Greg seems to know how to hold a conversation in addition to initiate it. The knot in Mycroft’ s stomach has just begun loosening when its pulled tight again, as he realizes they’re only five minutes away from the house. He casts Greg a slanted look to find him with his head turned and propped to his side window—his right wrist casually resting on his thigh, the hand trembling with the movement of the car. From this angle Greg’s eyelashes stand out: dark and thickly dotted along the lids but seemingly soft. Mycroft turns his head very slowly to avoid drawing attention and allows himself a stolen look of indulgence. He watches fascinated the pulse point on Greg’s neck, throbbing gently under the tanned skin. His look glides along the jaw line—a good, clear jaw line with a surprisingly round chin at the end. Then his eyes move up to the lips, and Mycroft’s mind blanks out. His groin throbs like the pulse point on Greg’s neck—sweetly distracting.

Greg turns his head abruptly, and Mycroft’s eyes jump away.

“I’m a cop,” Greg says, voice very quiet but kind. “I can see your reflection in the window.”

Mycroft opens his mouth but as he blindly searches for anything sensible to say, he notices Greg’s eyes falling on his lips—so he only licks them and closes them shut.

“Are we close?” Greg asks.

“Yes, just a few minutes,” Mycroft says.

The necessary calls have been made and everything goes as smoothly as ever. The gate is open and Mycroft is given the keys to the house by someone who is so discreet that she might as well be a ghost. The driver drops them off at the front door, nods and leaves to that miraculous place where drivers go when they need to be both invisible but at hand if necessary.

And Mycroft finds himself alone with Greg at the front door of the house. He turns to insert the key into the lock.

“It’s getting very close,” Greg murmurs and Mycroft turns around to look at him, startled.

“The weather,” Greg clarifies with his eyes glistening as they point upwards to the sky.

“Oh, quite,” Mycroft agrees. The air smells of rain, and he could feel the dampness of his shirt on his back, although how much of that is because of the weather Mycroft cannot tell.

They go in. Security codes are entered, comments to the effect of ‘This is a nice place,’ are made. Mycroft doesn’t remember much of the house from three years ago, and he can’t describe it for the world, even as he is actually looking at it. They’re in the massive circular main area on the ground floor—Mycroft heads to the bar but then Greg points to the far end of a wide corridor.

“Is that the way to the garden?” he asks.

Mycroft stretches his neck to see, hesitates and goes to stand next to Greg, squinting.

“I’m not sure. It looks like it.”

Greg turns to him. “Shall we go and find out?”

Mycroft just nods courteously and lets him lead the way.

At the end of the corridor they arrive at a conservatory, and at that moment they hear the first drops of rain on the roof. Greg moves directly through the conservatory, reaching the big glass doors that lead to the garden—Mycroft is reminded of his own house and _craves_ a glass of scotch. Then Greg unlocks the doors and opens them wide with both of his hands…

They can’t quite hear the rain because it is drowned by the sound of sea waves. There is a small open space, elevated like a terrace with deckchairs and various plants in pots—its best feature, however, is the fact that it is overlooking the beach. Greg hurries out but stops abruptly. He just stands there under the rain, his back to Mycroft and his face to the sea—and doesn’t move for a while. Mycroft walks out, too, but he lingers behind, bashful. He twists his face as the need to close the remaining distance and press his body against Greg’s threatens to topple him down.

Greg turns around and only then Mycroft realizes they’re getting quite wet. He lifts his head and blinks up to the sky, then drops his chin to tuck it into his chest and laughs quietly.

Greg makes a few steps towards him. “What?” he asks, smiling.

Mycroft spreads his very empty hands. “No umbrella,” he says simply. Greg’s grin gets broader. Then both of them are just standing immobile, not ten feet apart and facing each other. Greg slowly turns his head to look at the sea, then looks back to Mycroft.

“It’s been a while since dinner and I had just one glass of wine,” he says musingly. “I’m actually thinking of going in for a swim. I’ll be quick—is that okay?”

Mycroft’s lips begin forming a hybrid of the questions “What?, “How?” and possibly “What?” again but when he realizes he’s only staring with his mouth open, he straightens himself.

“By all means. I’ll just—“ He makes a motion with his hand to point to the house behind him, but Greg interrupts him.

“You don’t have to go anywhere,” he says. “In fact, you’re welcome to join me.”

To _that_ Mycroft has an answer.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” he shakes his head resolutely. “I’ve never been a keen swimmer and I think I’m already getting wet enough as it is.”

Greg’s face turns apologetic.

“Sorry, of course! If you wanted to go in—“

Mycroft’s the one to interrupt this time.

“No,” he says firmly. “I’ll just wait for you here.”

Greg nods and walks past Mycroft to go into the conservatory—

—where he begins undoing the buttons of his shirt.

Naturally Mycroft doesn’t expect him to go into the water with his clothes on, but seeing Greg actually take them off hits him with power that only reality posseses. He watches the shirt being shrugged off to reveal a splendid, very masculine chest—enough hair at the right places, enough definition at the right muscles. He watches the brown belt being undone, then the trousers’ button, then their zip. He watches Greg toe off his shoes and peel off his socks and finally take his trousers off. Mycroft realizes he’s been watching him strip only when Greg’s thumbs tuck under the elastic band of his boxer shorts. Mycroft’s eyes snap up to Greg’s face—and clearly Mycroft must be the plaything of some evil deity, because that only makes it worse: Now his eyes are locked with Greg’s as he takes off his last item of clothing.

He calmly drops his shorts on the floor and moves, releasing Mycroft’s eyes after he’s walked past him. Mycroft is left with a rear view of Greg’s naked, gleaming body—parts of it are still paler than others—but soon that disappears, too. Greg descends down the steps at the end of the terrace and in a flash he’s gone. Mycroft rushes out, heart suddenly knocking painfully in his chest but he takes a deep breath as he sees Greg again, walking down across the short stretch of sand and to the sea.

Mycroft goes to the decorative stone fence at the end of the terrace and leans on it. He’s dazed enough and quite ruined altogether, to worry about his shirt getting dirty—he only cares that his eyes should be able to follow the figure that is now going into the water. The rain is falling down steadily but it isn’t cold—at least Mycroft isn’t cold—and there is enough light coming from the house to illuminate the air within short distance. But it doesn’t fully reach the sea and Greg is just a vague form—a mythical sea creature that has come close to the shore to reveal itself only for Mycroft’s eyes to wonder and worship.

Mycroft doesn’t know how long he stays there, watching Greg’s head bobbing up and down, further in, then closer back. He doesn’t care. He’s acutely aware of the rain and the sea, and the brief appearance of the three quarter moon, taking over artificial light and changing the hue of the air colour from bronze to silver. Mycroft is living only with his senses—his mind has gone speechless and settled for the first time in a long while.

The surreal night continues, and the myth transforms into a staggering reality, when instead of disappearing into the depths of the night sea, Greg’s figure becomes clearer, brighter as he walks out of the waves and moves across the sand. He lifts his head up and smiles at Mycroft—his grounded, content, human smile dispersing any illusions of fantastical creatures. He climbs up the stairs and at the last one speaks.

“The water was lovely and cold,” he says. “My old man used to say that there’s no better swim than a night’s swim after a hot day.”

He’s already standing near Mycroft, the smell of sea exuding from his skin as salty water molecules are washed down by their fresh counterparts from the sky. Mycroft panics when he finds that time has returned in a very measurable way, that seconds are ticking—and he is looking at Greg with no words to offer. Greg examines him with a small crease between his eyebrows.

“You’re soaked,” he says.

“No matter,” Mycroft hears himself reply quickly. He realizes he means it. Nothing really matters right now; Poseidon himself could come out of the sea for all he cares.

Greg just frowns at him, uncertain. Mycroft smiles reassuringly and tries _very_ hard not to move his eyes below the line of Greg’s neck—which is why he spots when Greg’s Adam’s apple bobs sharply. Mycroft begins to wonder if the drops of rain aren’t actually raising their temperature as they journey down through the atmosphere.

Greg clears his throat. “Erm, do you think the shower works?” He points behind Mycroft’s back where a state of the art outdoors shower cabin reminds all visitors they’re not just at any house or any beach.

“I’m sure it does,” Mycroft says, just as the rain starts pelting down. He runs his hand through his hair. A shocking thought hits him: what must he look like?! Clothes hanging limply to outline a figure he has spent most of his life hiding in three-piece suits. Thin hair plastered all over his forehead. He suddenly feels both wretched and incredibly frustrated—it’s a powerful surge of emotion that has him physically swaying on his feet.

Greg is watching him intently, face serious. Mycroft tries to smile again.

“Step in—I’ll go and fetch you a towel,” he says.

He locates the towels in a small cupboard in the conservatory; there is a range of toiletries, too, so Mycroft selects a bottle of shampoo and one of his favourite shower gels, and distractedly pats his face and head with another towel.  He is grateful for the respite—he can still hear the thud of his heart pumping blood. He leans his forehead on the glass door for a moment, not thinking, just breathing.

The rain has quietened when Mycroft comes out again. Greg has left the shower door open and is standing under the flow with his back to Mycroft—the sound of running water swallows Mycroft’s footsteps and Greg doesn’t turn around. Mycroft’s eyes dance surreptitiously down the curve of his lower back and over his buttocks, and he feels his jaw prickle and his mouth water. He shuts his eyes tightly and counts to five, then opens them and calls Greg’s name. When Greg turns, Mycroft passes him the items, smiles his ‘You’re welcome’, turns his back on him and walks over to his previous position where he stood watching Greg swim. He gazes at the sea. He breathes in the smells of wet sand, sodium and chloride, various marine flora and fauna—and the subtle scent of moist summer ground. His lungs are filled to the brim; his eyes, too, following the white frills of the waves—and yet Greg is all there is.

In a few minutes the sound of the shower stops. The rain is coming to an end as well—Mycroft enjoys the sensation of the odd large raindrop splashing onto his skin randomly. He turns around to find Greg has come out of the shower and is weaving the towel around his body to rub it dry. The prolonged lack of words begins to ring louder and louder in Mycroft’s ears. His eyes, unattended, glide down Greg’s body, mapping his chest and following the soft line of hair all the way to his navel. From there, it’s all downhill.

Greg stops moving and stands very still, towel hanging loosely from his right hand. Mycroft’s eyes dart to his for permission but before it’s given or withheld, they drop down with a single purpose.

Greg’s penis is shaped as if a Renaissance Italian artist was commissioned to sculpt it. Mycroft watches it avidly, eyes feasting on it. He swallows again, then his gaze travels upwards, all the way over the belly and the stomach and the chest and the throat, back to Greg’s face. Greg is looking at him, his eyes like night in the depth of a mountain forest. Mycroft lifts his shoulders in that small, pathetic, common shrug that is universally translated as “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t help it,” then, feeling that once he’s lost his battles he might as well lose the war, his eyes return to Greg’s penis.

But Mycroft knows that no sculpture could shift its form once it’s settled in it by its creator—and only warm blood could do what he watches happening now.

It has been nineteen years since the last time—and also the first time—Mycroft watched a man become aroused _because_ of him in front of his very eyes. That, then, was startling and flattering. This, now, is the most magnificent gift of creation, for Mycroft and Mycroft alone.

It's also a green light if there ever was one.

Mycroft eats up the space to Greg in two steps and sinks to his knees on the ground. He wraps his fingers carefully around the base of Greg’s penis and slides most of it into his mouth. He closes his eyes, gulps and, flattening his tongue against the thickness, sucks on it.

“Oh fuck,” Greg says and his hand shoots to palm the back of Mycroft’s head. He hisses as Mycroft slowly drags him out of his mouth, leaving just the glans in, then slides his lips down the shaft again, taking him in as deep as he can, and sucking again in process. “Oh _fuck_ ,” Greg repeats and Mycroft’s eyes fly open—hands are roughly pushing him away and hauling him upwards.

“Stop—Come—Come here,” Greg mumbles and before Mycroft has even registered he’s been dragged back onto his feet, Greg’s mouth is on his, open and hot. A wet, insistent tongue slides in and licks Mycroft’s tongue, and it’s a very good thing that Greg’s still holding Mycroft’s neck with one hand, the other supporting him around the waist. Mycroft’s hand circles Greg’s waist, too, and pulls him closer, the hardness of his penis sorely missed despite the divine kissing. It’s back but against his hip now and Mycroft moans in Greg’s mouth.

“Inside,” Greg orders him tersely, manoeuvring him to the doors of the conservatory. They stumble in and Greg pushes Mycroft until he half sits, half sprawls on a large sofa. Greg’s tugging his clothes out and up, fingers impatient and demanding; Mycroft tries to help him but is too overwhelmed and just uses his hands to stroke Greg’s hyper-active naked body.

“Damn it,” Greg curses frustrated and manages to send Mycroft’s left shoe flying. His hands slide up Mycroft’s thighs and suddenly stop, Greg looking up at him. He swiftly leans in and starts kissing Mycroft again—Mycroft opens his arms and then folds them around Greg, and it is the most wonderful thing he’s ever done in his long, exhausting life. Greg’s hand finds the bulge of Mycroft’s arousal and rubs it over the cotton of his damp trousers, making Mycroft gasp and thrust into the sensation. Greg continues rubbing and stroking, while his own penis bruises Mycroft’s thigh. Then the kiss is broken again and in seconds Mycroft is disrobed of all his clothing.

“I’ve wanted to do this all night,” Greg pants, as he closes his fist around Mycroft and tugs. “Do you have any idea how fucking sexy you are? I want to—I’ve been thinking about you—You’re just—,” he is muttering against Mycroft’s mouth between open-mouthed sloppy kisses, his hand shooting to his mouth to get slick and returning to Mycroft’s penis. It has none of Mycroft’s hand’s finesse but it has care and hunger that Mycroft trusts instinctively. His head is rolling from side to side, as he pants and returns Greg’s kisses.

Greg finds a rhythm then and his hips become rhythmic, too. Mycroft closes his eyes and lets his pelvis thrust into the tight, hot passage. For a moment there is nothing but _it_ —he doesn’t know if he’s kissing or being kissed, if his hands are caressing or pinching lightly. It’s all a white, sizzling tunnel of _pleasure_ —and the realization that Greg is here and _he_ is giving him that pleasure hits Mycroft and yanks his orgasm out of him.

He is coming completely silently, mouth and eyes wide open—he’s staring into Greg’s exhilarated eyes as his body shakes and convulses. Greg seems to inhabit Mycroft’s body somehow because he knows when to slow down, when to squeeze lightly and when to stop moving but just hold his penis lightly wrapped within his fingers. Mycroft’s eyes flutter shut and he feels Greg rest his forehead on his shoulder.

When Mycroft opens his eyes again, Greg is still a pleasant weight on his chest but his hand has let go of him. Mycroft lifts his head and Greg shuffles up immediately, pressing his lips onto his. His tongue comes out eagerly but is not invading—Mycroft opens his mouth and for a long minute they just kiss lazily, their hands barely hovering over the other’s body.

Then Mycroft abruptly slides all the way down on his back until Greg’s fully erect penis is an inch from his lips, and says softly and with authority, “I'm going to suck you off and I want you to come in my mouth."

“Oh God,” Greg groans at his words, and there’s a second “Oh God,” in a raw voice, as Mycroft laps over his penis' perfect head.

Mycroft loves this. He loves the strain in Greg’s thighs from the effort not to thrust. He loves his own hand squeezing Greg’s left round buttock and pushing it lightly forward to _encourage_ him to thrust. He loves that he is on his back, slurping and licking, and sucking. Letting Greg fuck his mouth—Mycroft loves that. It costs him nothing, nothing at all, but what he gets from it cannot even begin to get quantified or qualified.

But as Greg swears under his breath, as his hand cradles Mycroft’s face and he starts coming into his mouth, Mycroft swallows it all down and thinks that he’s just made a gross miscalculation. This man might cost him a great deal after all; Mycroft realizes he’s quite prepared to do _anything_ to keep him.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> Again unbeta'd. Apologies for any mistakes. Original entry at my Livejournal at http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/24953.html If you'd like to, please drop me a line over there. Thank you for reading!


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